


Sing Me Awake

by ShippersList



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25147690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/pseuds/ShippersList
Summary: Witchers don’t have daemons, that’s why they don’t feel.…it’s not exactly true.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 294





	Sing Me Awake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chronicallyfragile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chronicallyfragile/gifts).



> Witcher has eaten my brain. 
> 
> This is for S, who raised a brow when I said I wasn't going to write any witcher and then laughed at me when, two weeks later, I told her I had two witcher fics in the making. Rude.  
> Thanks to [dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider) for checking this made sense.
> 
> Title (and several quotes) by The Amazing Devil because of course.  
> 

It’s an undeniable truth that Jaskier can’t _not_ wear his heart on his sleeve. He’s fascinated with everything and everyone he encounters and it shows which is the reason he makes it all _bigger._ He’s a bard, he’s expected to be exaggerating and flamboyant, and since his skylark daemon is, while a more demure sight, just as unable to keep still or silent as he is, well…

They’re a great pair, Zsofia and him. When they travel, she swoops around him and sings with him, and when they stop at an inn, she darts from patron to patron, dances on the rafters, and teases the other daemons. They’re entertaining and they’re annoying, and even though coin is sparse, they love every single moment of it.

His parents wanted him to take responsibility, to act according to his status as the Viscount of Lettenhove but Jaskier has always been a wild thing, unwilling to bend to the rules of the society. He wants to live, to learn, to fall in love and break his heart, to write the greatest ballads of all times. He and Zsofia, they _feel_ with every fiber of their beings and they wouldn’t have it any other way.

So, naturally, when they cross paths with a Witcher, they’re drawn to him like a moth to the flame.

* * *

Posada is a…well. It’s a town. That’s probably the most that could be said about the place. It has houses and it has an inn and where’s an inn, there’s a way to earn some coin. But coin has nothing on the silent statue of a man sitting in the dark corner, lost in his thoughts. Jaskier’s eyes drift to him throughout his performance and he knows Zsofia is just as distracted, fluttering to stare at him from the rafter just to his left. If the Witcher notices either of them, he doesn’t show it.

They go through their routine with a flourish, with winks and chirps and fluttering wings, and Jaskier is breathless with it all when he finishes even though he’s gained more stale bread than coin from his troubles. It doesn’t matter, though, because…

There’s a Witcher sitting in the inn.

Witchers don’t have daemons. It’s unnatural but it’s fitting, Jaskier muses as he watches the white-haired Witcher brood in his corner. He’s unnatural himself, after all; all pale skin and glowing eyes, barely contained violence thrumming through his body like he’s a coiled spring ready to burst into action.

He’s _captivating_ and Jaskier is helpless against his thrall.

”I love how you just…sit in the corner and brood,” he quips and fights a shiver as the Witcher’s eyesflicker to his and then away.

”I’m here to drink alone,” comes the reply and _oh,_ the things that growl does to his insides.

* * *

He’s doomed from the very beginning and he knows it.

He also doesn’t care.

* * *

Love is the strangest thing. Jaskier knows this because love is what’s been keeping him going for years, since the moment he learned to sing. According to his mother, that was way before he learned how to walk, so he’s had a lot of practice.

Nothing could’ve prepared him for the journey he’s facing with his Witcher. Despite the grunts, despite the dismissals, despite the…sometimes frankly unnecessarily physical attempts to get rid of him, he plasters himself to Geralt of Rivia, burrows himself to his life and follows him. He pries stories out of him like precious pearls from murky waters, cleans them and polishes them, and then shows the whole Continent what his Witcher is actually made of. Because Geralt might claim he doesn’t care but Jaskier knows better: deep down, Geralt is a good man who ignores the shit he’s served and does his best to protect the ones who can’t protect themselves.

And Jaskier loves him with everything he’s got.

It’s not really lust, per se, although Jaskier is human enough to admit that Geralt’s… _everything_ makes his insides hot and his breeches tight. No, his love for the man is… Well. He’s quite unable to describe it because he has no words for it. How does one describe a flower’s need to follow the sun? How does one justify the inevitable run of water down a waterfall or the way a rainbow arches over the skies after a storm? It’s the burning need inside of him to keep on going, to follow Geralt to the ends of the earth and sing it all out.

Geralt, of course, claims he hates every moment, but Jaskier decides it’s just for show.

* * *

”What. Is she doing,” Geralt says in a flat tone one day.

It’s hot, the sun searing from the cloudless sky and Jaskier has been uncharacteristically silent for some time now, saving his breath and energy to trudging forward instead of singing. He lets out a questioning noise and glances up and—

Zsofia is sitting on top of Roach’s head.

”I—” Jaskier starts and then falls silent because he has absolutely no idea of what to say.

Roach tosses her head, irritated and annoyed at the small daemon but Zsofia lets out a delighted chirp and flutters her wings to keep her balance. On his saddle, Geralt stares at her with a thunderous expression but he doesn’t move. In fact, he stays even more still than usual, extremely carefully _not_ making any sudden moves at that close a distance from someone’s daemon.

”Zsofia!” Jaskier hisses, his face bright red from both the heat and embarrassment. ”Get down. Now!”

She cocks her head in a way that tells him exactly what she thinks of his command and refuses to move. The cold feeling in Jaskier’s stomach only recedes when, after a short moment, she finally takes to flight.

”What the hell were you thinking?” Jaskier snaps at her later when Geralt is off catching their dinner. ”That horse is probably the closest thing to a daemon he has. You can’t just—”

”Oh, don’t be such a prude,” she scoffs. ”Roach is a wonderful horse who could do with some gentle company.”

And that… he isn’t sure what answer he expected but that wasn’t it.

* * *

It goes on. Zsofia doesn’t try to use Roach as her personal carriage every day but she flies to perch on top of her head several times a week. Each time, Geralt freezes and stares while Roach snorts and tries to get rid of her. Zsofia cheerfully ignores them both.

Then, a couple of weeks later, Roach is forced to retreat from a fight through a thick bush and she ends up with a thistle stuck inside her left ear. Before Geralt even has the chance to take a closer look, Zsofia is already there. She gently, carefully picks it out despite the way the barbs poke her and the bits she gets stuck on her feathers. Roach stands completely still the whole time and Jaskier pretends to concentrate on getting the fire started and not noticing Geralt’s piercing stare.

After that, Geralt is as thunderous as ever, but Roach never tries to shake Zsofia off.

* * *

So, Jaskier calls it love.

He could also call it Destiny. He doesn’t because Destiny is for the epic love stories between princesses and cursed knights or for Witchers who claim the Law of Surprise.

Destiny is something larger than life, a force to be reckoned with, an inevitable current one cannot escape from. And Jaskier, despite all his songs, is just a humble bard. Destiny has no plans for him, so he settles for love.

* * *

”Perhaps you should just go for it?” Zsofia murmurs one night as she perches on Jaskier’s shoulder. He gazes into the flames and strums his lute idly, just as soft background noise to the crackling of the campfire and Geralt cleaning up his armor. He’s breathtaking in the dancing light, his face in stark relief and his hair painted golden by the flames. He gives no sign he heard Zsofia’s words but Jaskier isn’t so sure. Witcher senses are what they are and Geralt’s hearing is even better than the stories would let on.

”Don’t,” he sighs.

Zsofia gives him an unimpressed look and he pretends he doesn’t see it.

Just because he hasn’t felt like having a dalliance or a dozen lately doesn’t mean he’s ready to approach Geralt. Not like that. Yes, his fascination has slowly morphed from awed curiosity to a steadily burning warmth deep in his bones, but it doesn’t mean anything. It certainly doesn’t mean he’s ready to risk the tentative friendship growing in between them.

He tells himself he’d rather have a monosyllabic Geralt on the other side of the fire than no Geralt at all.

He tells himself loving him like this is enough.

He knows he’s a fool.

* * *

The thing about monsters is that they don’t have daemons. Or, well, some of them do; the ones who have been warped by black magic, the ones who once were human. Their daemons are pitiful and terrifying at the same time and looking at them makes him break in a cold sweat and clutch Zsofia so close she lets out a squeak.

”You should’ve stayed back,” Geralt grunts as he wipes his sword clean, not sparing another glance at the smear that’s left of a daemon that looked more like a cross between a bat and a rotten pumpkin.

”Well…I mean—”

”It’s not worth a song,” Geralt says. He picks up the severed head of the poor thing, stacks it in a bag, and ties it to Roach’s saddle. ”Come on.”

Jaskier blinks, tearing his eyes off of the slowly dissolving smear on the forest floor and hurries after Geralt.

So, no, monsters don’t have daemons.

It’s a common belief that elves don’t have daemons either but they’re not monsters, no matter how much Queen Calanthe tried to paint them as such before she purged Cintra and slaughtered thousands. In truth, elves have their daemons hidden in between the worlds for safekeeping, only parting the veil in times of marriage, childbirth, and death.

As he walks behind Roach, Jaskier watches Geralt’s back and wonders.

* * *

Having magic doesn’t mean one doesn’t have a daemon. Mousesack wields magic while his jackdaw watches and Yennefer’s black swan was definitely present when she saved Jaskier’s life, not that he was conscious to witness it. He is, however, plenty conscious to see the way Yennefer rides Geralt while her swan fans out his feathers to caress Geralt’s bare chest and the picture they paint is as beautiful as it is arousing. He concentrates on the arousing and stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the bitter jealousy that makes his breath hitch.

After all, he doesn’t love Geralt like that, does he?

* * *

If he keeps telling himself he isn’t jealous, will he finally believe it?

Please?

* * *

His resentment toward Yennefer grows slowly. He knows it’s futile because Geralt is beautiful and magic and Yennefer is beautiful and magic and Jaskier is…just Jaskier.

He sees how they clash and burn brighter than the sun and he sees how they seem dimmer, somehow _less_ each time they part and he wishes, dear Gods he wishes they could just let each other go but they can’t and Jaskier—

Jaskier stands a bit to the side, hoping against all hope that there would be something for him left when their pyre finally burns to the ground.

* * *

Sticks and stones will break your bones but words… Words will cut you, shred you to small pieces that’ll spasm and twitch and then wither away into nothingness. Words will break your heart and you’ll never be the same again.

* * *

If he’d known that, would he have walked the Path beside Geralt anyway?

Would he have followed him to the mountain?

Would he have asked Geralt about the coast?

The answer is yes. A thousand times, always, inevitably yes.

* * *

Geralt’s words spear through his heart like a lance, spewing vitriol and rendering him speechless. Geralt’s hair, so soft to touch, feels like shards of glass as it hits Zsofia when she accidentally swoops too near and she lets out a soft, broken noise and flutters to Jaskier, hides her beak in his hair and he breathes, tries to breathe, but it’s…it’s _hard_ because there’s no air and—

”That’s not fair,” he whispers, knowing Geralt can hear him.

There’s no reaction, no sound, _nothing_ at all from the rigid form of his—not friend, no, because that was all a lie. Wasn’t it? All he ever wished was to be allowed to be near his Witcher, to live in his shadow, to—

He swallows and blinks rapidly, trying to get rid of the blur that makes the Witcher’s shape shimmer and distorts his lines with odd luminescence, and turns to go.

* * *

After two decades, he finally got his heart broken. He isn’t sure whether to be proud it took so long or sad it didn’t happen sooner.

Zsofia tries to console him but there’s no way you can convince your soul you’re fine when your heart is in pieces.

* * *

Learning to live without Geralt is difficult. It’s not like they spent all their time together but there was always this sense of belonging, of hoarding all the odd occurrences and funny coincidences close to his heart to tell Geralt about them when they next met.

”Ohh, wait until Geralt hears of this!” He used to crow out. ”Listen, Zsofia, I can almost _see_ him rolling his eyes and we’re on the opposite sides of the Continent!”

Now, Jaskier gleefully stores the morsels only to realize he has no-one to tell about them. It takes him months to drop the habit, to force his foolish, broken heart to finally let go of the futile yearning, of the hope that he isn’t alone in this.

”Wasn’t that lady just hilarious?” Zsofia tries to cheer him up. ”Oh dear, even an idiot should know that’s not how it works,” she scoffs, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

He knows she’s trying and he loves her for it so much it hurts. So, just to humor her, he starts to collect the things he sees in a small, leather-bound notebook. He writes down things he sees and hears, adds scathing comments and footnotes, and sometimes writes out entire essays on why it’s not such a great idea to, let’s say, dance naked around certain mounds. It’s not the same (but then, nothing is) but it’s…something.

He wanders. Flits from town to town, pulls on his bard persona like an old, comfortable coat, and performs. Zsofia flutters around, dances on the rafters, and teases the other daemons. They chat and flirt and dance and entertain and when the night is over, they retire to their room, alone, exhausted, silent.

And when the tears come, they don’t talk about it.

* * *

Of course, being the bard of the notorious White Wolf, Jaskier can’t escape Geralt’s shadow. It’s ironic, the way how he now can’t get away from the man he so desperately chased after, but that’s life, he muses. Fucked up and with a cruel sense of humor.

”Where’s yer Witcher, bard?” Someone shouts from the audience.

He winks. ”You know the Witchers, slaying monsters, saving people, the usual,” he quips back with a grin and smoothly strums the transition to his next song.

”Tell him we’re alright,” a farmer’s wife says at the market as he samples some apricots. From the pocket on her chest, her field mouse daemon stares at him with unblinking eyes as she grips his arm with a warm smile and continues, ”And it’s a boy. We named him Geralt.”

Jaskier blinks, eyes wide, and forces down a hysteric giggle. ”Um. Yes, yes, of course. So glad you and your family are alright.” From the corner of his eye, he spies Zsofia flutter down to take a look at the baby sleeping in the crib under the table.

A somber boy no older than six, staring at him. ”I wanna be like him,” he says, defiant and desperate. ”I wanna be a Witcher.” His daemon flickers between a beagle and a ferret but the look in her eyes is just as defiant and desperate.

Jaskier sighs and kneels, ignoring the mud that seeps through his breeches. ”There are many other ways to help people than being a Witcher,” he says softly and raises a placating hand when the boy opens his mouth to argue. ”Be as it may, you have to go to school first. You can’t be a Witcher if you can’t write and read and count.”

People Geralt has saved. People Geralt has inspired. People who hum ”Toss A Coin” under their breath as they go on about their day.

So many people whose lives Geralt has touched, so many stories, and Jaskier will tell none of them.

* * *

It shouldn’t be a surprise when it happens, considering there are only so many lavish courts in the Continent and Yennefer loves opulence. But somehow, Jaskier had managed to ignore the possibility and now the result is staring at him across the ballroom. She’s clad in her usual, stunning black attire, her eyelids sparkling like emeralds, and her hair adorned with an intricately carved black swan headpiece.

He’s a professional so he doesn’t stumble but there’s nothing he can do to how his heart tries to drum its way out of his ribcage. He lets his eyes slide over her and keeps on going, hoping she’d let things be.

She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.

”Jaskier,” she says from behind him when he’s taking a break. ”Quite a performance.”

He turns to see her calmly sipping red wine from a delicate crystal glass and has the sudden urge to rip the glass from her grasp and throw the wine on her face. Her brow quirks and he’s pretty sure she knows exactly what he’s thinking about. ”Yennefer,” he says instead, proud of how neutral his voice stays.

”So…” she says, cocking her head. ”I’ve heard rumors that—”

”What are you doing?” He interrupts, ignoring the way Zsofia smacks him with her wing.

”What do you mean? Can’t I just…catch up with an old friend?”

He stares at her for a moment and says, flatly, ”We might be many things but friends isn’t one of them.”

She purses her lips. ”Well, that’s just rude.”

”Stop playing games,” he says, quiet and resigned. ”You won. What more could you possibly want?”

She looks taken aback which…seems so genuine he’d be impressed if he wasn’t just so _tired_ of it all.

They share a moment of strained silence and then Jaskier pinches the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, trying to stave off the headache he feels brewing behind his eyes.

”For what it’s worth, I wish you well,” he finally says. ”Although I’m sure you can always bend the world to suit the exact state of ’well’ you desire.” He bows his head and lets out a long breath and as he turns, he says, ”Goodbye, Yennefer.”

He returns to his performance and sings until his voice is hoarse and plays until his fingers bleed, and never glances at that particular corner of the room again.

* * *

When he finally runs into Geralt again, it’s by pure accident.

He’s on his way out ofKoluszki, a small town with a surprisingly lively nightlife, his purse fat with coin and his belly full with the gratuitous breakfast the matron of the inn provided. He stops by the market to get some chewy bread for the road when he spies a familiar chestnut mare.

”It can’t be,” he whispers to himself.

”What? What’s wrong?” Zsofia asks, worried, and follows the line of his gaze to— ”Roach!” She chirps happily and flies to her before Jaskier can stop her. She lands on Roach’s head and nuzzles her ears, cooing so softly Jaskier can barely hear her. But he feels her happiness and it burns in his throat.

If Roach is here, _he_ can’t be far—

”Jaskier?”

He closes his eyes and swallows. That voice…the rumbling cadence is familiar but the softness is new and he can’t— he can’t turn around—

”It’s good to see you,” Geralt says from behind him.

It’s gentle and low, almost like he’s talking to a spooked animal which…yeah, right. His heart is hammering like crazy and he feels almost dizzy so to the Witchery senses he’s probably as good as a spooked animal which, okay, isn’t exactly _flattering,_ but nothing about this whole ordeal is flattering, it’s extremely uncomfortable and terrifying and why is he here doesn’t he hate Jaskier’s guts what about the life’s one true blessing—

”What’s wrong?” Geralt asks, takes a step to walk around him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

It burns like a brand and he flinches. ”What’s wrong?” Jaskier parrots in a shrill voice as he whirls around. ” _What’s wrong?_ Really?”

Geralt blinks, looking slightly lost. ”I—”

Jaskier reins himself in and jabs a finger at the Witcher’s chest. ”You!” He hisses. ”You tore our friendship to pieces, pissed on the remains, and then blamed me for every bad thing that ever happened to you. Except that there never was a friendship, was there? I was always just a piece of meat you reluctantly strung along for…I don’t know, pity or a misguided sense of obligation. Or maybe it was because of the baths my coin bought you.”

Jaskier shakes his head, taking in the stature of him, the way his hair is partially bound behind his head, the way his hands clench and unclench on his sides and feels…he feels…he doesn’t want to—

”I tried to blame you for stealing the best years of my life,” he says as his anger leaves him. ”But the sad truth is that I just…handed them over, not realizing they were completely worthless.”

”No— Jaskier, wait.”

”I can’t do this,” he whispers and turns to go, only to stop when Geralt steps in front of him.

”Please, just, listen,” Geralt says. He holds his hands in front of him, palms toward Jaskier. It’s almost like he’s pleading and that doesn’t make sense.

Jaskier squeezes his eyes closed. ”I can’t—”

”Why?”

”Because you make me _ache_ , you bastard!” He forces out, refusing to open his eyes. ”You make me wish I was with you, that I belonged with you and I know it’s pathetic and stupid and it makes a complete fool out of me but I can’t help it.” He drops his head and takes a shuddering breath that sounds an awful lot like a sob. ”You already broke my heart, Geralt. Just…let me go. Please.”

He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t call out for Zsofia. He hunches his shoulders and steps around the Witcher, hurrying away.

He doesn’t see a curious, soot-colored, blue-eyed cat cocking his head at him.

He doesn’t see the desperate look in Geralt’s eyes or the way something shimmers around him.

He doesn’t see anything but the ground and even that is blurred by tears.

* * *

He returns to Oxenfurt. It’s not ideal because he knows what his peers think of him, abandoning a promising career as a lecturer for the freedom of the road, only to come back years later with his tail between his legs. But he also knows it’s a place Geralt won’t follow.

So, he returns. His reputation is enough to secure him a decent room and a class to teach and he jumps the chance. It’s a steady income and, while boring, teaching young minds is something he knows he can enjoy. Or he can learn to enjoy.

It just takes time.

* * *

Attending a competition has never felt as arbitrary as it feels now but he does it anyway. It’s sort of expected of him, as the famous bard of the White Wolf. Joke’s on them, though, because with Geralt out of his life, his songs are lacking. Don’t get him wrong, Jaskier knows he’s a hell of an entertainer on his own right, but Geralt’s presence made everything brighter, sharper, more focused. It was like the moment before a lightning hit, the smell of thunder in the air and gooseflesh running down his spine.

Without Geralt, his songs are just that: songs.

Without Geralt, his songs have no soul.

He goes, he sings, he loses to Valdo Marx, and doesn’t have the energy to feel that bad about it. He puts up a good show anyway, scoffing and rolling his eyes but he’s secretly relieved when he can finally leave the place behind.

It’s a tempting feeling, to leave _everything_ behind.

* * *

To make things clear, he’s not suicidal. He doesn’t actively look for ways to hurt himself. He knows because he spent two decades hurting himself.

But if something would happen…well.

He wouldn’t mind.

* * *

Two days from Oxenfurt, he sets his camp under thick spruces. The weather is nice but he would still prefer something sturdy to lean on or to pretend there’s a roof over his head. He could’ve purchased a ride back but he declined, knowing it would’ve meant endless questions and unbridled curiosity about his time with Geralt and he’d rather not. Sure, traveling alone takes more time but he doesn’t care.

Jaskier likes peace and quiet now.

As he builds up the fire, Zsofia does a perimeter check before returning to perch on his shoulder.

”You could sing a bit?” She suggests.

He glances at her from the corner of his eye. ”Don’t feel like singing,” he says, quiet.

She shakes her head. ”This isn’t like you,” she chides. ”You used to sing all the time.”

He shrugs and says, ”Well…” And falls silent because what could he say? She already knows. So he eats his jerky and trail mix, drinks his water and then fills his canteen on the nearby stream, and spreads out his bedroll. He’s exhausted to the bone but sleep has been elusive lately.

He jerks awake an indeterminate time later when Zsofia screams and something _cold_ slides through his bones. There’s a foul stench in the air and he gags, scrambling up with his lute in one hand and a silver dagger in the other. The fire has gone out and it’s pitch black in the woods which only seems to enhance the shuffling and growling that echoes all around him. The cold is still there and it sinks into him like poison, making his head foggy and his breath stutter.

”Zsof—” he calls but her name cuts out in a pained gasp.

No. It’s not pain. It’s _revulsion_ so intense he nearly faints but he can’t because Zsofia isn’t here, isn’t with him because, dear Gods, as the moon peeks from behind clouds, he sees she’s trapped in some creature’s claw and it _hurts_ and he wants to throw up and it’s _wrong wrong wrong wro—_

Something flashes past him so fast all he sees is a glint of metal and the creature’s hand drops to the ground, neatly severed from the wrist. And then a small, lithe shape darts to the severed limb, clawing and tearing at the hand until Zsofia is free. That’s all he sees before clouds cover the moon once more and the woods go dark.

Still holding his dagger and lute, Jaskier stands up, turning slowly around as he pants. Zsofia is safe, he can feel it but…how? And who?

And then he hears the snarling.

For an unfamiliar passer-by, it would probably sound like a wild animal but Jaskier knows better. He’s heard that snarling before but for the life of him, he can’t understand why Geralt is here.

”Down!” Geralt barks.

Jaskier doesn’t think but drops down like a sack of potatoes. A split moment later, Geralt’s Igni shoots over him and straight into…whatever creature was lurking behind him. The thing lights up like a pyre, illuminating the small clearing filled with creatures Jaskier has never seen before.

Fuck.

In the middle of the gaggle of nightmares come to life, Gerald spins and whirls, hacking the monsters left and right. Lost limbs and, apparently heads, don’t seem to affect them nearly as much asone would’ve thought and despite his speed and skill, Geralt is struggling. Jaskier stares, wide-eyed and horrified as Geralt’s sword gets stuck and the creatures swarm him. He takes a step forward—for what, he isn’t sure—and then yelps as something grips his throat.

Geralt’s head snaps up and his pitch-black eyes widen. ”Jaskier!” He roars, desperate and furious.

And—

Before Jaskier’s terrified eyes, something _rips_ itself though—no, _out of_ Geralt: a luminescent shadow of a massive wolf charges forward with lightning speed, tears into the creature holding Jaskier. As it brushes past him, he feels a caress of the softest fur and the feeling sings through him leaving a tingle behind.

Completely flabbergasted, he pushes himself to sit up and stares slack-jawed as the shadow-wolf rips several creatures into shreds. It’s eerily silent but the fury it feels is evident in every move. Behind him, Geralt keeps fighting the creatures but Jaskier only has eyes for the giant, gorgeous wolf in front of him.

”Am I dead?” Jaskier whispers to himself. _”What are you?”_

All monsters dead, the shadow-wolf spits out a piece of something Jaskier isn’t too keen on examining closer and shakes itself, before turning and slowly walking toward Jaskier. It stares straight at him with eyes that are exactly like Geralt’s and then it hits him.

Somehow, miraculously, _this_ is Geralt’s daemon.

The shadow-wolf stops beside him and pokes him with its—her?— massive snout, almost toppling him over.

”Hey!” He protests. ”Some of us are just squishy humans.”

Almost apologetic, the wolf nudges Jaskier’s hand and slowly, he raises it to card through the soft fur on her neck. She stays silent but he feels a steady vibration under his hand as if she was purring. He laughs, breathless and delighted (and perhaps slightly hysterical), and then squeaks as she nuzzles his neck.

Behind him, Geralt lets out a strangled sound and when Jaskier glances at him, he’s staring at the ground, a pained look on his face. And he seems flushed. Jaskier is sure of it.

Almost sure.

* * *

Can Witchers blush?

* * *

He’s almost ashamed when he realizes he doesn’t know where Zsofia is, just that she’s safe. He’s about to ask when he hears a demanding _meow_ from a tree at the edge of the clearing.

”Why did you climb up there if you didn’t know how to get down?” Geralt asks in a tone that tells Jaskier this isn’t the first time this has happened.

Another _meow_ and Geralt stops.

”I don’t—” he starts and then, a startled, ”Don’t just drop her!”

Jaskier senses a fleeting flash of vertigo and then he’s…he doesn’t have words for it. He feels protected and safe and completely at ease but it isn’t _him_ who’s feeling it, it’s Zsofia, but—

And then Geralt turns around, hands cupped in front of him, and walks to Jaskier. His whole body curves around his hands like he’s cradling something immensely precious which doesn’t make sense because apparently, it’s just Zsofia.

* * *

The cat belongs to princess Cirilla. It seems that at some point Geralt had regained his senses and actually went to collect his Child Surprise. And not a moment too soon, if the rumors about the Fall of Cintra are correct.

The daemon is as curious as his human is, fearlessly circling both Jaskier and the shadow-wolf resting beside him. He even goes as far as to poke the wolf with his paw and when she slowly turns to her side, the soot-colored cat happily climbs all over her.

The princess laughs and boops Geralt on the nose.

Jaskier stares, speechless, and wonders if he’s dead after all.

* * *

”So…Witcher daemons are, what? Shadows? Ghosts?” Jaskier asks quietly.

It’s late. They’d gathered whatever was salvageable from Jaskier’s camp and settled down to a new campsite Geralt deemed safe. He set up the bedrolls in silence and saw Ciri through her bedtime routine and now, he and Jaskier are sitting side by side, watching the fire while Zsofia dozes under Jaskier’s chemise. The creature injured her wing so she’s unable to fly for now. He’d like to claim the close contact is for her benefit but in all honesty, they both need it after what happened.

Geralt’s daemon is still present, contentedly curled beside Jaskier.

”Yes and no,” Geralt says after a moment.

”Well, that’s decidedly unhelpful.”

Geralt frowns and takes a sip of his mug. It’s some fragrant herbal concoction Jaskier is sure Geralt didn’t carry before— Well, before. It tastes nice, though. Jaskier already finished his and feels the warmth through his bones.

”It’s not safe for us. Having daemons,” Geralt starts slowly. ”The trials make them go away but we can reach them when we meditate.”

”Huh,” Jaskier says. ”So, do all Wolf School Witchers have wolf daemons?”

Geralt shrugs. ”I don’t know. Haven’t asked.”

”Can you all manifest your daemons?”

”No.”

Geralt doesn’t offer more information and after a short moment of silence, Jaskier closes his eyes and sighs. ”Right,” he says dryly and moves to stand up. Inside his chemise, Zsofia lets out a protesting chirp.

”Wait,” Geralt says and reaches out, stopping just short of touching his arm. ”I’m—” He lets out a frustrated growl and swears under his breath. ”I’m not good at this.”

Jaskier bites his tongue to keep silent and settles back to wait while Geralt takes one more sip from his mug and sets it aside. He sits in the pose he meditates, legs crossed, back straight, shoulders relaxed. It’s all an act, though, because Jaskier sees the tension around his eyes. Tension and…fear?

”She’s a Kaedwenian direwolf,” Geralt says. He brushes his hand gently through the wolf’s fur and she flicks her ear without bothering to open her eyes. ”As far as I know, she’s the only Witcher daemon that has manifested outside meditation.

”It’s not something we talk about. Back when there were more of us, we were busy staying alive. Small talk about vanishing daemons wasn’t exactly encouraged.”

”Vanishing?” Jaskier asks and cocks his head.

Geralt nods. ”All boys entering Witcher schools had normal daemons. The ones who survived the trials had the training to worry about. And those who didn’t survive, well…” He shrugs. ”They didn’t need to worry about anything anymore.”

Jaskier hums and looks at the sleeping wolf. ”How does it feel, having her here?”

”Not that different. Except…” his voice trails away.

”…Except?” Jaskier prompts.

Geralt swallows. ”When you touch her,” he finishes, reluctant.

”Oh.” He makes a face. ”I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Something flashes across Geralt’s face so fast Jaskier is almost sure he imagined it. ”No, I— I liked that,” he says, voice hesitant and quiet. Yearning.

”You did?”

Geralt nods.

* * *

The next morning, the ghost-wolf is gone.

Jaskier hides his disappointment in idle chatter with the princess _(”You really should call me Fiona. We’re undercover, remember?”)_ and strumming his lute, pretending he doesn’t see the way Geralt keeps looking at him. It’s both painful and wonderful to be on the Path with him again, even though Jaskier knows they’re just escorting him back to Oxenfurt and…

Then Geralt and Ciri will go on and Jaskier will be alone.

Again.

”Where are you heading next?” He asks to distract himself, keeping his voice light.

Ciri looks at him, then at Geralt, and then back at him. ”I thought you’d come with us?” She says. She sounds hesitant and small, like the little girl she actually is.

He gives her an apologetic smile. ”I try to not go where I’m not really wanted,” he says, ignoring Geralt’s frown.

”But we want you with us, don’t we? Geralt?”

Jaskier sighs and rubs a hand across his face. Her face is open and pleading and Jaskier would love to accompany them but not like this. Not with Geralt’s words still haunting him.

”You are,” Geralt says roughly. He scowls at his feet and then glances at Jaskier. ”Wanted.”

And…that’s not—

He doesn’t know what to say to that so he doesn’t say anything.

* * *

”Stay,” Geralt says when they look at Oxenfurt up ahead.

”Why?”

”Because we need you,” the Witcher replies without looking at him.

”Not good enough,” Jaskier forces himself to say and turns to look at Geralt’s profile.

Geralt swallows, hangs his head, and closes his eyes. ”Please,” he whispers. ”I need you.”

* * *

Oh, Witchers do have souls, they just hide them well.

But Geralt… he doesn’t hide. Not anymore.

His soul shines, fond and frustrated, through his eyes when Jaskier gets hit with inspiration and he composes in a frenzy, forgetting to eat and drink, almost walking into a ravine on one, memorable occasion.

It shimmers around him when Jaskier gets in trouble, ready to burst out even though Jaskier is more than capable of handling himself, thank you very much.

And when he finally gathers his courage and kisses his Witcher, Geralt trembles and his soul leaks through his skin, reaching out for Jaskier.

* * *

He tries to ask how Geralt knew to be there to help him but Geralt reverts to grunts and Ciri merely rolls her eyes. It’s her daemon, Miška, who finally reveals Zsofia they’d been traveling for some time now but somehow always circling back to Oxenfurt.

”He’s an idiot,” Miška says fondly. ”But we like him anyway.”

* * *

”I’m still angry at you,” Jaskier says without raising his head from Geralt’s chest. ”You hurt me. No, you _gutted_ me.”

Geralt’s hand spasms, gripping his side so hard Jaskier is sure it’ll leave a mark. ”I’m sorry,” he says.

”I know,” Jaskier says, and he does know. But knowing doesn’t diminish the lingering pain or soothe away the ache in his chest when he wakes up at night, deep within the memory of poisonous words.

”I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Geralt whispers into his hair.

It’s the lullaby he falls into sleep with.

* * *

”I’ll give them back,” Geralt says.

”What?” Jaskier asks, distracted.

They’re slowly making their way to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Ciri is asleep, only her nose visible from under the furs she’s wrapped in. A curl of blond hair rests on her cheek, gathering frost from her breath in the chill night.

”You said I stole the best years of your life,” Geralt says, hurried and slightly desperate as if he isn’t sure Jaskier will hear him. ”But I’ll give them back to you if you let me.”

He turns to face the Witcher, takes in the earnest look on his face and the way his eyes shine and reaches to cup his cheek in his hand. Geralt shivers slightly and leans on the touch, his eyes falling partially shut.

”I know,” Jaskier says. ”I know you will.”


End file.
